


Hey Little Sister

by Mhalachai



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, family ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-05
Updated: 2006-12-05
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester has no illusions about his family. That's why he's never told the boys where they came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Little Sister

**Author's Note:**

> Written before we knew anything about John or Mary's background. Set before and during SPN 2x01, In My Time Of Dying.

* * *

* * *

John Winchester has no illusions about his family. That's why he's never told the boys where they came from.

But sometimes, he wishes he'd broken down and made that call to little Lizzie, the only one of his extended family that was worth a damn.

* * *

Not that John has any time for most of those losers. Lawyers, bankers, plastic housewives and golf junkies. Wasn't a one of them that ever got dirty doing an honest job in their lives. Even the military folks, prissy West Point graduates, were never on the ground in 'Nam, didn't ever see their company cut down in the muck, never started to rot alive in mud that was half dirt, half blood.

Jesus. Back then, he was twenty and felt ninety and hadn't wanted to be at that fucked up extended family reunion, in the rolling estate in Cape Cod. His CO'd learned about the family reunion, decided it would be good for John's career for the young upstanding war hero to meet the family.

Yeah, like taking the fucking bus from the base in uniform had been a good idea. The driver'd kicked him off a mile from the estate for starting a fight with some punked out hippie who'd called John a baby killer or something.

The walk hadn't been hard, even though John's shoulder blades itched in the open countryside. There were no snipers in Massachusetts. John was pretty sure of that. He didn't even know why he was here. Sure, he was related to these people, but only by blood. They'd thrown his old man out a decade before John was born. If the old man had still been alive, they sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to see him. How was that family?

As he expected, the party sucked. Everyone looked at the dirty-booted grunt like he was lower than low. John wondered what they'd say if they knew he planned on opening up a garage when his discharge papers came through.

Useless, the whole lot of them. Wasn't a single one who could even change a damned flat tire on the road.

Except maybe that one. Couldn't be more than sixteen, lanky and tall with just the right curves, long wavy brown hair and a challenge in her eyes. 

He knew better, really he did. She was related to him, somehow, and young enough to get his ass tossed in jail for statutory rape, but he'd always been a sucker for a brown-eyed girl with wavy hair.

"You're John Winchester," the girl said, with a voice strong as steel. 

_And you're trouble._  "Who're you?" he demanded, not denying her words.

She smiled then, satisfied. "I'm Elizabeth Weir," she said. Not defensive. Another challenge. "I do believe we're cousins."

_Good._  "So, Lizzie," John said, ignoring the outrage on her face. She was fresh and clean and nothing like the hell he'd left behind in South Asia. "What's the scoop on this crowd?"

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Scoop?" she said witheringly. "You sound positively retro."

John glanced behind Lizzie, at the gaggle of children watching them cautiously from the sidelines. "Is that really the reason you're over here talking to me?" he asked, turning on that charm he'd perfected on countless girls in countless bars since he was sixteen.

She blushed, a pink flush over her cheeks, and anger in her eyes. "I wanted to ask you a question!" she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. Well, under her breasts, and seeing as how John was still only twenty, he watched her do it. 

John leaned his hip against the short wall by the gardens, wondering when this girl's daddy was going to come over and drag her away from the big bad pervert. "What kind of question, Lizzie?"

"Stop calling me that!" she exclaimed. "It's Elizabeth!"

"Sure thing." He grinned. "Lizzie."

She shook her head, curls flying in the summer sun. 

In that instant, she was so alive and so real and so safe in her little American world that John hated her, hated this place. His friends were dead, most of his whole damned battalion was dead, and little Lizzie was alive and safe. It wasn't fucking fair or right or sane and he wanted to be her age again, thinking that right and wrong made a difference in the world.

She was watching him, with wide, ancient eyes, and he didn't understand her at all. 

"What was it like? The war? Not what they tell us, the politicians or the media or anyone. What's it really like over there?" she asked, curious now. She really wanted to know, John knew.

So he told her.

God help him, but he told her the truth.

She never made him sorry he did.

* * *

Four months after he'd been discharged, he was living hand to mouth, saving up for a garage of his own, when crazy cousin Lizzie came knocking at his door.

She'd run away, she explained with a calm exterior that freaked him the fuck out. She needed to see the world, school was on break, and can she just stay with him for a few days?

The last thing he needed was an emotional teenager in his one-bedroom apartment on the bad side of town, with last night's pizza box on the coffee table, empty beer cans scattered about. He told her to go home, she ignored him. He told her he'd get her a motel, she told him he couldn't afford it.

He told her she was a whiny brat who didn't have any idea what she had. She told him that she knew damned well what life was like, and he could take that macho crap and shove it up his ass.

He found the best way to shut her up was to put a beer in her hand and get her drunk. Yeah, he was probably going to pay for corrupting a minor, but she was hurting, he can see that. And it wasn't pain like watching his friends die, but it was real to her, and she was the only one who could work through it.

At about two in the morning, after Lizzie had dragged every single secret out of him that he had to tell, he broke out the whisky.

"Did you ever think about what we're supposed to do in life? Why we're here?" she whispered, her hand trembling slightly as she knocked back her second shot of the booze. She made a face, but kept the shot down.

"I do what I do," he said, watching her through narrowed eyes. He didn't think she had it in her to take down so much alcohol. And when had he become so protective her, anyway? he didn't know her from Adam. 

"But what it means, in the end?" She looked at him with the emotional angst that only a sixteen-year-old girl could muster. "What does it matter? Once you're dead, you're dead."

Her mind was a million miles away, but the way she licked her lower lip, struggling with the shattered faith in god and humanity... she'd had enough booze and she was distraught enough, he knew he could lean in and take advantage of the situation, and she wouldn't be able to blame anyone but herself.

And that would make him the bad guy.

For once in his life, he didn't want to be the bad guy.

"It means you do what you do, Lizzie," he said, putting his glass down. He drew back, pushed the jumbled mess of  _want_ and  _wrong_  down. "What do you want?"

She knocked back half a shot of whiskey with a professionalism that impressed even him, then stared at him full on. "I'm going to save the world."

Maybe it was the alcohol, but in that instant, he believed she could do it.

* * *

Lizzie was the only one of his family that came to his wedding, in her power suit and her hundred dollar haircut. She charmed Mary, fell into an engrossing conversation with John's grease monkey buddies, and left without telling anyone her wedding present was thirty thousand dollars for John to buy into the garage.

He didn't cash the check for a month, until Mary asked him what he was waiting for. He hadn't been able to explain, and Mary kissed him on the lips and told him that if he thought the gift had strings, he should rip it up so they could go on living their lives.

He loved Mary just a little more when she said that, even with them scraping by, barely able to afford the mortgage. He cashed the check because deep down he knew it was the first gift from anyone in his family that didn't have single string attached.

When Dean was born, John sent Lizzie a note, and she sent back a stuffed bear for the baby, a spa package for Mary, and a bottle of cheap whisky for John. " _I owe you,_ " was all the note said

Things got busy, and he barely had the chance to notice that little Lizzie was turning into a serious player, her name attached to big UN conventions and law decisions. He watched her on the news, late night, when Dean was teething, and John told his boy that his Aunt Lizzie was going to save the world one day.

Mary got pregnant again, and this time John kept putting off sending the letter to Lizzie to tell her about Sam, that the baby was born the day after Mayday, that he came out screaming, that he would cry until Mary sang to him with ancient English bittersweet songs of death and winter.

Then...

Mary died, and John forgot everything but revenge.

* * *

Mary's death is decades behind him. John holds the pen over the paper, not sure what the hell he is doing. Daniel Elkins is dead, and his boys are already in Manning, Colorado. It's way past time for John to join them, Sam and Dean, his family.

But first, he has to write this letter, to the only other family he has in the world. He hasn't talked to her since Mary died, since the hell with the darkness began.

If he's honest with himself, he knows he's probably not going to come out of this battle alive. If he has to die to save his sons, then that will be worth it. 

Lizzie might have wanted to save the world. Well, his sons are his world, and that will be enough for him.

Maybe Lizzie will understand. 

So he sets pen to paper, and even as he writes, he has no idea what he hopes to accomplish.

_Lizzie,_

_Mary died in 1983. I'm probably dead now. Dean has a brother named Sam, and I don't think..._

_You said you wanted to save the world. I guess you deserve to know what you're trying to save the world from._

_There are things out there that aren't logical, aren't possible. There's evil out there. It killed Mary, and it's after the boys, and it's what killed me._

_Lizzie, my boys might need your help one day. You're the only family they have left._

the end


End file.
